


choreography

by bog gremlin (tomatocages)



Series: nonsexual intimacy prompts [9]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, During Canon, Galaxy Garrison, Gen, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Pre-Relationship, Season/Series 07, Sparring, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:07:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26989525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomatocages/pseuds/bog%20gremlin
Summary: While working to Join the forces of Voltron and the Garrison, Shiro and Keith agree to a sparring demonstration. Shiro's not exactly what their audience is supposed to learn.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron), Matt Holt & Shiro
Series: nonsexual intimacy prompts [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1838314
Comments: 11
Kudos: 84





	choreography

**Author's Note:**

> For [chemi_crush](https://twitter.com/chemi_crush%22).
> 
> Nonsexual intimacy prompt: slow dancing ([originally posted on twitter 8/10/20](https://twitter.com/boggremlin/status/1292994012819918851)). This prompt has been edited and lightly expanded.

Shiro’s not unfamiliar with teaching. He’s always had skills in demand — charisma aside, he’s very, very good at flying, and he was pretty much responsible for recruiting and training half the fleet of cadets that enrolled while he was a junior officer. It’s a muscle he forgot to flex in the arena — “Right,” Matt says. “The one muscle you _ didn’t _ flex during your gladiatorial career. Congratulations.” — but it’s one that’s pretty constant anyways. He even likes it. 

“You like preening,” Matt corrects. “You’re like one of those weird dancing birds, it’s a whole thing for you.”

“It’s educational,” Shiro counters. “I’m not trying to pull in a class, those are  _ cadets _ , Matt.”

Matt makes an obscene hand gesture and saunters away, likely avoiding any authority figure who could make him run some kind of team-teaching seminar. Matt dislikes organized curriculum; he’s only competitive with himself. 

The reason it even came up is because Keith’s been tapped to demonstrate Blade fighting styles for the MFEs (all of whom are extremely skeptical and loath to give up their long-range weaponry). That’s all well and good — Keith is shockingly capable with a sword — but Shiro’s the only person who seems remotely experienced enough to serve as a partner. 

Schedules being what they are, Shiro doesn’t get a chance to go over the lesson plan with Keith before he finds himself barefoot on the mats (he doubts Keith believes in lesson plans, anyway). Keith eyes him curiously — he’s dressed in his Blade uniform, looking sleek and terrifying, his hair braided back from his face in a way that makes Shiro think Romelle has been practicing hairstyles on him again. 

“Going for the casual look?” Keith asks. Right. Shiro’s wearing what Matt calls his “fancy athleisure,” which consists of a pair of joggers and an old shirt with the sleeves cut out. If Shiro’s honest, most of the sides are cut out, too. He knows it’s more of a peekaboo look than is technically appropriate for an educational setting, but. Sue him. He’s going to let Keith pretend to beat him up in front of a bunch of witnesses, there’s no reason Shiro should have to suffer the indignity of a shirt that’s too tight around his shoulders.

“We can’t  _ actually _ fight,” Shiro says. He’s aiming for a jocular tone, to let the growing audience — which is much, much larger than the MFEs — know that everything is normal and the lesson will begin shortly. “They wouldn’t be able to keep up with you.”

“Hm.” Keith nods, and carefully sets his blade aside. Of course he was planning to fight with live weapons; of course. Shiro doesn’t know why he expected anything less. 

Shiro throws the first punch, mostly to set the mood for the class. Keith can read that kind of message: Shiro’s moving at a painfully slow speed, and if he manages to connect, it’ll be a love-tap, not an actual hit. 

He doesn’t connect, though. Keith moves under Shiro’s arm, then around his back, then back in front, reaching out to place a leisurely tap against Shiro’s breastbone. 

It takes immense concentration to move so slowly, to twist and beckon so the spectators can see how Keith throws his body into each form, the way he flits from offense to defense and back again. Shiro shifts his weight to compensate for how Keith’s slighter movements try to push him off-balance. It’s hard work; he’s sweating.

Strangely, moving like this — it doesn’t awaken anything in him. Shiro had been half-worried that he’d remember something about the arena, that he’d black out from fear or rage, and come to his senses with blood on his hands. It’s happened before. All Shiro feels instead is a heavy sense of concentration, an unwillingness to look away from Keith’s body, Keith’s face, the way Keith takes up space and vacates it. 

“Disgusting,” Shiro hears Matt say, as if from a different room. “They’re show-offs.”

“Shut up, Holt,” one of the MFEs — Nadia? — says, but without rancor.

“We should give them a show,” Keith says. He’s sweating, too. Keith’s not pretty like this — he doesn’t glow. His hair is sticking to his face and if Shiro could actually get behind him, he’s sure he’d see a long, damp line down Keith’s spine. Shiro wants very badly to get behind Keith, because it means that instead of play-punching, he can flip him, or lift him off the mats; once Keith loses momentum, Shiro’s bulk might actually be of use. 

“If we go much faster,” Shiro points out — he shifts his weight forward and Keith gets a foot up on Shiro’s knee, leaping up and landing a step back — “Then they won’t be able to keep up.”

“Right,” Keith laughs. His teeth look sharper than ever. He looks happy. “It’s a learning experience. I forgot.”

Shiro rushes forward, moving faster even though he’s the one who said they should keep it slow, make it so their audience has a bare chance of tracking the way they move. He connects, this time: he gets his prosthetic hooked around Keith’s waist, enough to pull him in close enough to pin one of Keith’s legs against Shiro’s own body. They’re pressed close now, and it feels like a revelation. A small revelation. “I think we can do better than this,” Shiro says, and pushes Keith back away. If Keith were any less sure on his feet, he’d land on his face; instead, he twists his hands out and somersaults back up. It’s a showy move, a useless one. Shiro would say it’s a move that has no place in a fight, but he’s seen the way Keith weaves in and out of his opponents’ space. Keith fights like he’s always going to be the smallest person in the room. It reminds Shiro of guerilla warfare, or of a David-and-Goliath story — except Keith is the stone being thrown, not the person throwing it. 

They never do get around to picking up practice staffs, or to actually demonstrating sword forms. Shiro thinks about it, he really, truly does; he thinks about picking up a blade and shifting his weight to balance it, changing his focus to adjust to the longer reach. When Keith fights, it doesn’t matter if he’s holding a knife or a sword or a stick or, hell, even a rock: he leads with his weapon and throws himself after it. 

Another too-hot, exhausting round of slow-motion maneuvers — it’s like when Sam got painfully enthusiastic about Tai Chi and made Shiro and Matt follow along with an old recording he played at least once a day cycle on the way to Kerberos. Shiro’s muscles actually ache with the slowness, with how he has to focus twice as hard to make sure he’s engaging the right muscle groups. Keith — probably aches, too. But it’s hard to tell. Even at play, Keith’s fighting style is a little desperate, a little too focused for a war. 

When they finally separate, panting a little, Shiro feels triumphant. They haven’t drawn blood, or demonstrated with a blade, or even given a particularly impressive performance; as far as sparring sessions with Keith go, this has been pretty tame. It’s still satisfying.

“Learn anything?” Shiro asks the room. They’ve drawn… an uncomfortable crowd, one that includes a few too many officers for Shiro’s liking or Keith’s general peace of mind. 

“We learned that you’re still a show-off,” Matt calls from the doorway. He’s all talk; he’s holding up his tablet, the screen set to the notes app with “GO FIGHT WIN” typed in a truly eye-watering typeface. 

“This is how you prepare for the blade,” Keith says. If he weren’t so competent he’d sound like an idiot. “You have to know your body, and know how you fit into your opponent’s space.”

“I’ll  _ bet  _ you know how to fit into his space,” Griffin says.

“We’ve been training together a long time,” Keith says. 

“Right,” Shiro says. He reaches over and grabs Keith’s hand. He’s in full armor, but he’s not wearing gloves. Shiro intertwines their fingers and raises their joined hands above their heads before coaxing Keith down into a bow with him, a combination of completing a form and emerging for a curtain call. “I’m sure someone recorded the footage—”

“Ryan did!”

“ — but we were moving slowly enough that you should have gotten an idea of how to handle yourselves in close combat. Ideally, you’re not gonna need to know how to handle yourselves, but it’s like the higher-ups always say: expect the best and train for the worst.”

“Ah,” Keith says, delicately. “That’s where you lose me.” He gives Shiro’s hand a little squeeze, reassuring. “Anyway. Hope you learned something.”

And he’s gone, like a skittish cat. As always, it’s only once Keith has vacated his immediate vicinity that Shiro notices how much heat he throws off; they both do. It was comforting in space, and it doesn’t matter when they’re sparring, but now it makes Shiro feel as though he’s been caught in a cramped cockpit with broken climate control, and the heat’s gotten oppressive. He sighs and pulls up the hem of his shirt to mop at his face, ignoring the wolf-whistles that ripple through the crowd. 

“Get back to work,” he says. The MFEs ignore him, which is almost better than if they’d listened. 

Shiro finishes his workout for the day. The sparring session was more of a warmup than anything else, and he’s starting to get that little hitch in his spine that reminds him to stand up straight and also do a few extra reps with the resistance bands. That’s another thing to concentrate on: the new prosthetic is hard to get a read on, and he keeps tearing the heavy-duty bands. Pidge, who refuses to do any type of weight training that requires actually lifting weights, is getting annoyed. Shiro doesn’t see why; it’s not like they ever use anything except for the light band. 

Matt joins him, sort of, as Shiro moves into his cool-down. He’s not wearing a uniform — fine, neither is Shiro, what’s the point — and he’s eating some kind of sour gummy candy that Shiro is pretty sure is from the last swap-meet Pidge raided. 

“Verdict?” Shiro asks. 

“I think your bower’s still empty, pretty bird,” Matt says. 

“You’ve had too many of those,” Shiro grabs the bag and empties half the remainder into his own mouth. He regrets it immediately. “Oh my god,” he swallows. “You  _ have _ had too many of these things, give me a water.” They’re sharp, and astringent, and Shiro is convinced his tongue is about to shrivel up and fall out of his mouth. Frankly, that would be a mercy; maybe he’d stop tasting them. 

“You’re a baby,” Matt informs him. “Serves you right.”

Shiro shudders and forces himself to swallow several times in quick succession. It’s not the worst thing he’s ever tasted, but he’s felt sensitive to flavors ever since he came back to life. “Gah,” he wishes his mouth were wet enough to spit. 

“The verdict,” Matt says, pityingly, “is that you’re the one who needs to learn something.”


End file.
